


No Plan

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Reader-Insert, Song: No Plan (Hozier)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-07-12 01:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19937971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You and Andy have no plan for what the future holds, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.





	1. Love to Get Done

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I saw a post on Tumblr asking if there were any fic writers out there willing to take on writing reader fic for Hozier specifically for plus-sized black women. I immediately wanted to do it, and so here it is. It took me some time to write because rpf is tricky and Hozier is an interesting person to try and characterize. This is my attempt. Hope you enjoy.

_No Plan_  
A Hozier Reader  
By Tom’s Dom

_My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand ..._

_That's how I know now that you understand,_

_There's no plan, there's no hand on the reign ..._

_But I'll be your man if you got love to get done ..._

______

“So, how long have they been there?”

You ask him this in a hushed whisper -- both because of the guilt of knowing that he was finally drifting off to sleep and because despite how slight he is, his body is still quite weighty on top of yours. Your torsos move in tandem with your shallow breaths, his inhales and exhales countering your own. His had begun to slow and deepen; that’s how you know he’s losing the feeble fight to stay awake. So are you, to be honest. The thing you’re asking him about isn’t important; just another way to keep him talking.

Tomorrow is his last day here in Savannah and you don’t even want to waste the three hours you have left before he has to get up and leave on sleeping. Rest seems such an insignificant thing to sacrifice in order to stave off the panic impending loneliness threatens.

You feel the rumble in his chest when he chuckles drowsily, the sound thick and croaky in his throat. He’s laughing at you but you know he understands why you’re trying to keep him up. You’ve been doing this, with varying results, for the better part of the hour after the last of the two times you’d had sex. He either harumpfs, or he laughs at you. This time, he gives in and answers.

“Ehm …” is all he manages at first, as a long yawn overtakes him before he can continue.

He laughs again when he’s done, this time full-bodied, sitting up on his forearms to stare down at you. You frown a little, immediately missing the weight of his head pressed into your tummy.

“I have no idea,” he finally breathes with playful, feigned regret, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow into his hairline.

You crack a slow smile, not at his wry non-answer, but because you’re thinking about how you’re also gonna miss teasing him about his eyebrows. About the fact that women all over the world spend hours in the mirror trying to pluck, tweeze, tease and paint eyebrows that perfect; and he just _owns_ them naturally. He likes to pretend like he has no idea what you’re on about with your teasing (even though he’s a millennial and well aware of meme culture, so the relevancy of terms like “on fleek” is not beyond his intellectual grasp).

Internally, you call bullshit on his response to what you’re asking him about _now,_ though. He’s a terrible liar, which he uses to serve a mischievous sense of humor. There’s gonna be a joke in there somewhere, but you will take the bait like you always do, regardless of how obvious he is about it.

You click your tongue and roll your eyes, thumping the tip of your pointer fingernail against his forearm.

“Baby, they’re _your_ freckles ...”

He gives a snort, and smirks before dipping his head, lowering a curtain of thick, dark auburn curls down to your face, momentarily blocking your view of _his_ face.

Again, your lament is instant: you miss his smile immediately, feeling a pang in your chest. You only have a few more hours to experience this casual affection he gifts you in person, so you take your hand and run your fingers through his soft hair, pushing one side of unruly fringe back behind his ear so you can see his striking features again.

Andy sleepily blinks delicate lashes over his green eyes, still smirking, and waits for you to say something else. Something that isn’t laced with misplaced consternation. You’re both antsy and tense, feeling the disappearing minutes tick steadily into disappearing hours.

He recognizes the pout on your face, though and tries to replace it by inciting another smile. “Yeah, yeah they _are_ mine ... I do own them, but they’re on my back! Ostensibly, they would’ve been there from birth, but I have no way of confirming this darlin’,”

His low voice is deepest when he’s tired, resembling something of the way he croons heartache and longing on stage. It’s just a husky whisper he’s leveling innocently down at you, but still, it causes you to shiver. He notices this too, of course but chooses to wait for you to react to his horrible, meandering joke before moving to wind you up in other ways.

You know that he loves to hear you laugh -- he’s told you often enough. It’s genuinely the sound of it -- bold and bright and infectious -- that turns him on first and foremost, he has said. This is marked by countless occasions that saw the playful trading of barbs turn quickly into the breathless trading of euphoric, encouraging expletives. You always exclaim earnestly at his intentionally dreadful sense humor, and that’s the way he wants it.

Right now, however, even though you would have laughed yet again if this weren’t the last night you were going to be spending with him for a long time, you can’t quite muster the energy to do more than continue to pout.

“Andrew,”

When you say his full given name like that, he knows it’s time to get marginally serious. You’re not chastising him for trying to lighten the mood (the question about his freckles was a poor red herring), as much as you are challenging him to say something serious and reassuring. Something meaningful. He has it in him -- this you know because of his reliably sweet nature. He is always looking after you; appreciating how you nurture him in return. This codependency is symbiotic at this point; typical of the two of you to meet each other halfway.

This though. This, you sense he is struggling with.

It’s only been a few months.

______

The North American leg of his first global tour had swept him into this town and right into your life. You met him at the Johnny Mercer Theater where he'd played two nights of a residency for the annual blues festival this past summer. You were there both nights. Both nights, you stayed after the last set and drank the bar closed with your homegirls. Both nights, this tall Irish drink of water chatted you up into tipsy fits of giggles that might have seen you blush merlot through your dark brown skin, though you wouldn’t admit it at the time.

On the second night, he had charmed your panties right off you, sweeping you into the backroom long after his band had packed up all their gear and were shooting the shit with the remaining stragglers trying to close the bar that night. The tattered, tiny little sofa in the small dim room, which smelled like cigarette smoke and beer, was just about too restrictive for his long legs and your plentiful curves.

He had you though, holding steady with two palmfuls of hips and ass, long fingers dancing against the soft fabric of your maxi dress as he maneuvered your thighs into a position that pleased him. He made sure you were comfortable and consenting along the way, occasionally pausing to beseech your permission with questioning eyes before situating you both into an extended session of heavy petting that grew increasingly frantic by the seconds.

You remember that his scent was something like a bittersweet mix of sweat and the last dregs of what you guessed was oatmeal shampoo. It engulfed all your senses as soon as you freed his impossibly long hair out of it’s tangled bun. You’d never been with a man with hair like that before, and you really enjoyed his fervid reaction to your nails on his scalp.

He’d grunted and turned serious, the soft, shy grin replaced with a tensely focused clench of his stubbled jaw, blown-out pupils and a guttural groan. Nibbling his bottom lip, he surveyed you closely the way you are now used to him doing, with such precise scrutiny it had unnerved you at the time. That same shudder that he always manages to stir in you had made itself known for the first time that night.

“You ok?” is what he’d exhaled against your full, swollen lips (your mango-flavored Burt’s Bees long kissed away by him). He swallowed and nuzzled your round nose with the tip of his angular one, involuntarily rocking his narrow hips and impressively hard bulge into the damp, cotton covered apex of your substantial thighs. He huffed at the little keening noises you made, situated underneath him with your breasts heaving up at his face, keeping time with your panting breaths.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you managed to answer, adjusting yourself by squirming underneath him. You remember being so fascinated with everything about him, you couldn’t even really think about whether or not your rapidly beating heart was from nerves or barely contained anticipation.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he’d humbly confessed with a laugh, momentarily going back to the joking -- a safe space for him -- even as he quite contradictorily continued to roll his hips into your throbbing center with slightly flared nostrils and a dogged, entranced look in his eyes.

“Can I touch you?” He had asked this with a bit more bass in his voice. The dichotomy of it, seamlessly coexisting on his person, had you wide open for him.

All you could do is nod mutely in response, feeling your body being pulled towards his voice as if on strings you'd unknowingly given him control of.

With your permission, you vividly recall his long, slender fingers sliding their way into your panties, through the folds of your slick labia, masterfully working your throbbing clit and bringing you off in that tiny back room. The memory is tuned to Ray Charles’ “Sinner’s Prayer” on the bar's sound system as it thrummed loudly through the thin walls, drowning out your dazed cries of pleasure.

Andy strummed you to singing just like he strummed his favorite guitar that night on stage. Gentle words of encouragement fell from his lips brushing your ear while you came with a grip on his hair, the exposed skin of his neck in your mouth working to blot your whimpers. Distinctly, the feeling of his Adam’s apple moving against your lips with the hotly uttered “ _Fuck_ , I feel you squeezing my fingers baby,” is a memory not to be erased.

Despite his modest wonder at the result of his handiwork glistening on his thumb, middle and forefinger, his pride at the skill with which he’d made you come blossomed before your eyes as you watched him place those fingers in his mouth and groan at the taste of you. Andrew Hozier-Byrne then proceeded to bury his eager face between your thighs and eat you out until you again came screaming in time with Ray Charles' last soulful note.

______

What followed were three heady months worth of phone calls, texts, emails, video chatting and one weekend trip to New Orleans to see him play again. There, you spent long nights in his hotel room testing the limits of the mattress and headboard. Three months of trying to remain pragmatic about the fact that once done with this leg of his tour, he’d be flying to Europe for another three-month stretch before finally going back home to Ireland.

All you know about Wicklow is that it’s his birthplace, just like Savannah Georgia is yours; two worlds apart.

Somehow, he’d managed to get himself booked for the Savannah Jazz Festival this month on short notice and was now at the end of a too-brief four-day headlining residency at Forsyth Park. His days were busy, but he spent as much time with you as he could. During his nights, after a long ass day of performing and giving interviews, he would forgo his hotel room to come to your humble apartment and make love to you until you were both exhausted. Then you would talk until the sun came up. He’d get a few hours of sleep before he’d have to drag his lean body out of your sheets and begin his routine all over again.

Now here you both are, gazing at one another with unspoken words waiting to be shared between you.

“You know … it’s ok to say ‘see you later,’” Andy comments quietly, leaning down to plant a decadent, smacking kiss on your sternum.

You inhale slowly, loving the tingly sensation his cool, pillow-soft lips leave against your skin.

“When we know it’s really ‘goodbye’?” you counter, not letting him off that easy. You don’t want to wait until morning to say the things that need to be said.

He sighs, but not in a way that suggests he’s vexed with your stubbornness (he likes that about you too). No this is a sign of resignation. He never really is one to fight, especially when he knows you’re right.

“You think I’d never see my baby again? Have you no more faith in me than that?”

You roll your eyes because he’s pontificating, again for whatever humor he can squeeze out of the situation, despite the very sobering nature of the subject at hand. He’s insecure about your apparently strong feelings for him, and his for you quite frankly. You both know that his going back to Ireland after an extended European tour would essentially mean the death of any relationship the two of you fancy yourselves trying to develop. Unless you get a passport and move yourself to his homestead (which, aside from the fact that it terrifies you, you cannot afford anyway).

“Andrew,” you groan his full name once more, sliding out from underneath him to sit up on your elbow so you can get your point across. “You know what I’m saying. Stop playing.”

He’s distracted by your breasts, swinging heavy and full in the deep v-neck of the frayed white t-shirt you stole from him the first night he’d come over. He’d left your place that morning wearing just his flannel button-down overshirt and a shit-eating grin. Now he’s eyeing your nipples through the worn fabric and reaching for your waist to pull you back towards his warm body.

“C’mere honey,”

His accent makes anything he says sexier than you would find it coming out of someone else’s mouth. That was the first hook that reeled you in after he’d baited you with his stage presence, the power of his voice and the seduction of carefully crafted words sung to the rafters in a cramped space piled with gyrating bodies.

You shiver again, hating his influence over you. You don’t think you’ve ever been this goddamn _subordinate_ with a man. Let alone some skinny white boy who looks like a willow tree in ripped jeans. His slender body is naked under your sheets so you can just make out the rise of his dick print between his legs as he squeezes your flesh and pulls you bodily towards him with a determined look on his face.

“You’re right to worry, I’m not arguin’ with that," he soothes your attitude softly. "I’m just sayin’, we’ll try. Alright? That’s the best we _can_ do, so it’s no use dwelling on anythin' other than that. I’ll make that effort if you will, yeah?”

You raise a dubious eyebrow at him.

For the limited time that you’ve known him, the type of person he has consistently revealed himself to be is that of a pragmatic realist. One who carries hope around and believes in optimism, but a person firmly grounded in the real possibilities, circumstances, and consequences of life. Andy has the appealing ability to distinguish and heed those things that are under his control and those things that are not. He doesn’t play emotional games or operate on pretense out of fear of the unknown. Not only is that a breath of fresh air, but it’s also sexy as hell.

The separation looming ahead for the two of you is out of _your_ control. The consequence of that chasm will likely be the slowly extinguishing embers of passion between you. This is a fling. Neither of you is assured that it can be more, and pretending otherwise will hurt the here and now. His ‘effort’ to be optimistic for you is chivalrous, and you do appreciate it. It endears you to him even more than you realized you could be.

So, taking a very deep breath for strength, you allow him, at last, to pull your body towards his own, throwing a broad thigh over his waist and placing a hand on his abdomen. He is the one that shivers this time, burying his face in your neck and planting yet more kisses into your skin. His stubble scratches pleasantly.

“We’ll keep in touch,” you breathe, pressing your breasts into his chest. “But … no pressure? Whatever happens, happens.”

You don’t know what you’re saying, you can’t talk anymore because Andy is working hard now to distract you from this subject.

He reaches a big hand up under his shirt to squeeze one of your large breasts in his warm palm before rubbing the nipple into hardened wakefulness with the pad of his thumb. Moving his deepening kisses from your neck to your slack mouth, he groans and bucks into you before whispering hoarsely:

“Focus on what’s happenin’ now,”

Before you can do so much as moan in obedience, he has his shirt up and over your wild head of hair, untamed from the hours of sex you’d been having since he’d rapped on your door earlier that night. Andy lays you down, running his hands down the sides of your fleshy hips, squeezing and groaning along the way. Gripping the meat of your thighs, he pulls you into him, sliding his long girth through your still slick folds until the tip presses against your clit.

“ _Unnnh_ …, _shit baby_!” gripping his hair, you feel rather than hear the noise hotly escape your lips and into his curls before he moves his head (despite your hold on the wavy strands falling through your fingers) and takes your mouth for his own.

His tongue eases in, tangling with yours for long breathless beats until you both have to inhale. You see stars while he nips at your lips, foraging a hot path down your neck and clavicle until he reaches the hefty globes of your bosom. Veering to one side, he licks his way to the left breast and envelops its dusky nipple into his mouth, causing you to arch your chest into his face.

He chuckles in response to your eagerness, tickling you and making you giggle in return. Disengaging with a suckle and a pop, Andy lets your nipple fall from his elegant mouth.

“I’d say something like ‘we have all night,’ but I’m afraid you’d smack me if I talk too much.”

You almost do, because that’s not _true_ (either part of it), but you just spread your legs wider, causing him to falter as his dick slips towards your entrance, right where you want him.

“Andy, _shut up_. Fuck me please!”

His laughter fills the room this time. He kisses you soundly, shutting _you_ up. When he pulls away, that same intensity has blown his pupils wide and tightened his jawline.

“Roll over babe,”

You roll to your stomach, spreading your legs underneath you and propping your backside up on your knees just as he positions himself on his own knees behind you. Placing a wide palm on the dip in your back, Andy presses you down gently, until you realize how he wants you. You sink further into the mattress, getting excited now. You love this position; you both do, not only because it feels so damn good, but also because he likes to talk to you while he’s surging into and pulling out of you. You relish that shit. Shuddering with giddy excitement, you forget all the bullshit that worries you about never seeing him again and try to do as he says -- focus on what’s happening now.

Crossing your ankles, you wait with bated breath for him to take hold of your body. Andy doesn’t leave you waiting long, repositioning his hand to grip your hip and hold you in place as he finds your entrance and gradually pushes in, guiding his member with his other hand.

You can just picture him biting his lip with his head tipped forward, the veil of his auburn curls grazing your shoulders. His hair feels soft and cool against your heated, smooth skin. It's a novelty you'll never get used to.

When he sinks deeper into you, you grip the sheets and push back, pressing your round ass into his pelvis, whining to the high heavens just as he seats himself fully, his balls rubbing against your slick lower lips.

“ _Fuuuuu uhhhh_ …” is all you can moan when he starts using his long legs to _thrust_ , the meat of your ass bouncing and jiggling with the impact. He sends himself so deep inside you, your G-spot sings and a gush of warm pre-cum coats his shaft on its way back out, causing him to groan in satisfaction.

He thrusts again, this time lowering his whole body on top of yours as he does. His taut abdomen meets your lower back, his chest pressing deliciously into your shoulder blades. He starts speaking now, emphasizing his every sentiment with languid yet forceful plunges into your body.

“You feel so amazing … I’ve never … ahh … felt anything like … mmm, you baby. Where the _fuck_ did you _fucking_ come from?”

You want to cry he sounds so sexy. Between his grunts of effort, sighs of pleasure and groans of appreciation, his accent thickens as he continues, panting hoarsely now: “I loooove your body baby, mmm … god, you feel so good in my hands ...I wanna make you come,”

He has said things like that to you before: that he had never been with a woman like you. During your long talks in the wee hours of the morning before the sun came up, he had confided in you that his love life had been paltry. He’d been what he thought was in love exactly twice in his life. Once was a short-lived infatuation with a blonde in grade school and the other a tumultuous, semi long term affair with a brunette at university before he dropped out to pursue music.

He meant that in all sorts of ways of course. How very Southern American you are with your twang and your brazen, infectious attitude. Your luminous, rich brown skin that glows in sunlight instead of reddening angrily beneath it. The coconut oil he can smell in the thick coils of your twisted locs of hair. The way you phrase things and your sense of humor. The ample, shapely curves of your body that he finds so comely and irresistibly sexy. The way you move against him when you’re together.

“You feel so good,” is a mantra he continues to breathe into your ear while he drives into you, alternating his rhythm in order to urge on your climax. But you aren’t having that. With effort, you arch your back into his chest, raising up fully onto your knees, causing him to groan and gently bite down on your shoulder while gripping palmfuls of your ass in his hands to brace himself, momentarily stilling the thrust of his hips to accommodate you.

Tossing your hair over your shoulder, you turn to look back at him with coy mischief gleaming in your sparkling brown eyes.

“No, I want _you_ to come for _me_ now Daddy,” you mewl smokily, licking your lips and throwing your backside at him. Bouncing and swiveling your hips, you pull him in, expertly catching each of his powerful thrusts. He holds on to you for the life of him, gasping and increasing his speed to keep up with you, until he locks his hips with a grunt, coming in spasms against your body.

You move your fingers between your thighs, working your clit with dextrous circles until you come too, squeezing his still pulsing dick with the walls of your pussy. Sighing happily, you collapse underneath him, feeling the comfortable weight of his body settling on top of yours, an inverse of your starting position.

What you really love, is the sensation of his chest expanding and collapsing with each labored breath he takes, his heart rate slowing from racing to the calmer beats of an even rhythm. He’s real and so was the time you spent together.

“Think we scandalized your neighbors enough for a night?” Of course, he has to say something funny. It's like your thoughts are too loud and he can't let your melancholy stand.

Giggling tiredly, you scratch his forearm again, reveling in the feel of his veins stretching the skin against his modest muscles. He’s hot and sweaty just like you, but neither of you are too inclined to move. You forgive his need to steer you away from missing him when he's right there as easily as you breathe. Because he's correct to do so. You have to stop forgetting to live in the moment with him.

“Boy, shush.”

After a nonchalant chuckle, he does shush. You think about all the things you still haven’t said to him while listening to his breath even out more, deepening as he finally falls asleep. Maybe you'll say them tomorrow.

You don’t know what will happen after the sun comes up. When he has to go back to being Hozier, not just Andy. When he has to go back out into the world at large and leave you with nothing but memories and hope.

No plan comes to mind. Right at this moment, all you can do is dream.

______

_To be continued ..._


	2. The Sweeter The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Andy doesn't say with words, he tells your body with practised precision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is long and smutty. I don't know what else it is other than that. I don't know if it has anything to say other than angst doesn't have to be so ... angsty? Yeah. Well, my characterization of Andrew is just that ... reflective of a character I created for the purposes of this short story. That's all folks.

_What a waste to say the heart could feel apart_

_Or feel complete, baby_

_Why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird?_

_When it sings so sweet_

_The screaming, heaving, fuckery of the world?_

______ 

Andy is good in bed. And this was a surprise.

The first time you lay eyes on him, making his way onto a stage, he looked like a towering wisp of air.

You never imagined someone like him not only being able to make your body plyable to his own, but also to maneuver it around the stage of your bed like it belongs to him. He can be possessive, but only with your permission. You gave it to him easily because he has asked again and again until it was a foregone conclusion that every curve and chubble was his. He earned that shit, no doubt.

It isn’t like he is the most skilled or confident person in bed, or at all free of the desire to be sexually validated by a lover. He has anxieties around performance and fears rejection just like anyone. What he is, though, is _smart._ What he is, is _observant_ , _attentive_ , _responsive_. Once he knows you, he is not shy. He learned you fast and applied his knowledge with dedication to earning top marks for his study.

What he is, is _passionate_ , with the deep thinking, addictive nature of a creator. Validation from _you_ is aggressively sought by him. _Craved_ , even. He doesn’t do drugs, he writes songs. He does _you_. He plucks you like an instrument, writing sonnets on the planes of your rich brown skin with his mouth and hands. He takes pride in dismantling, studying and then rebuilding you every time he’s between your legs. He seeks out the high of making brand new what had never existed before. In you, that comes in the form of a woman so confident and carefree laying naked before him, it startles you to realize that this might be the first time in your life you aren’t overthinking what you look like through someone else’s eyes.

When he’s working, he tends to be an insomniac. He pushes himself until he crashes, often waking early and going until his brain and body gives out from exhaustion. Making love is another thing he does with such steadfast abandon, it can threaten to burn you up too. You swear to god, as soon as he leaves your bed, you will fall into a coma until your body forces you to wake for food and water. You’re gonna be sore, hungry, thirsty. You’re gonna have to pee, shower, brush your teeth, cowash your hair …

Neither of you had slept very long. He can tell you’re awake and thinking.

“Mornin’,” he whispers lightly.

He loves to wake you with his mouth. His voice is brick over concrete. You can feel the vibration making its way through your core. His head is positioned between your legs, hair swept to the side and blanketing your thigh.

Glancing down at his green grey eyes looking up at you with unblanched desire coloring them the hue of a storm cloud, you part your lips and moan out a response:

“Mmm … Morning baby.”

Andy smirks, arching an eyebrow. His adorable expression belies his amusement with something before he schools his features into a look resembling the marriage of disappointment and confusion. He narrows his eyes, his lashes so low you can’t see his blown pupils anymore.

When he speaks again, you feel the warmth of his breath on the folds of your exposed mound. The muscles in your tummy go taught in reaction and you try to spread your legs wider, pointing your toes and resting them on his narrow hips. You sense him gently grinding what is probably a raging morning erection into your mattress.

“Hmm, last night I was ‘Daddy,’” Andy remarks in mock-seriousness, trying on a stern tone, his accent counterproductively smoothing out the edge. He finds this funny … but in a way that turns him on. Teasing you is his favorite thing to do. He likes to mock, but not cruelly. What he’s saying is that he doesn’t think of himself that way, but that he finds it endlessly amusing that you do. That he is ‘Daddy’ to you is a thing he’s going to get to the bottom of before he fucks you mercilessly with his tongue.

You take the arm that had been slung over your head and reach down to comb your fingers through his cool, soft waves of hair. Your nails find his scalp and you scratch at him gently, knowing that he will react to this like a needy puppy. And he does, closing his eyes completely and rubbing your thigh with his warm cheek, which starts to redden beneath the stubble growing there. It prickles your skin pleasantly and sends yet more vibrations through your core. You’re so wet for him now. He inhales your scent, opening his eyes and staring up at you with hard eyes.

That’s not mocking or amusement. It’s intent.

“Good morning _Daddy_ ,” you exhale emphatically, licking your lips.

He smiles slow like a cat now, _about_ to eat the canary.

“Yeah … I like that,” is all he says in return, before lowering his mouth to your lips and swiping his tongue the length of your labia then humming hungrily against your clit, causing you to cry out and arch up off the bed.

You grip his hair tightly in your fist, to which he groans long and slow.

When Andrew eats your pussy, he eats you like he doesn’t need to breathe. He eats you with his whole face, nose included. He alternates fucking you gently with his tongue and spelling all of his names against your throbbing clit. He kisses your lower lips with fervor and insatiable hunger. He takes those long fingers and forages like a hunter, finding your spot many times over.

By the time you’ve whimpered, moaned and shrieked your way through three orgasms, you’re hanging off the bed at an angle, ass in the air. Andrew’s feet are planted on the floor with your legs barely slung over his broad shoulders. He’s hunched over your body with one of your breasts in his big grasping hand, his other hand clumsily assuaging his straining, dripping dick.

“ _Ohhhh_ , _goddamn_ …” you pant up at him hoarsely, hanging onto his forearm to keep from sliding to the floor in a heap of tits, ass and tummy. He releases his possessive hold on your breast (not before swiping his thumb across your hard, sensitive nipple) and holds still so you can use him to right yourself on the mattress. For such a skinny thing, he is so strong; an anchor you have unwavering trust in.

Andy laces his long fingers with yours, holding your hand to pull your upper body to his chest. Without speaking, he lowers his messy face to yours and kisses you deeply, languidly, low moans escaping the depths of him.

When he releases you so you can breathe, his husky, thickly accented (it always gets that way when he’s horny) whisper wraps your naked body in a blanket of needy arousal.

“How’re you feelin’ this mornin’?”

_God, this boy can be so sexy_. This is what you think, but what you say is more playful.

“I thought I told you,” you giggle, teasing his abdomen with a kiss.

His hard dick is twitching and leering up at your mouth, but you don’t give it the attention it craves. Andy towers over you, taking in every inch of your flesh like it’s more precious than gold to him. He wants to pounce, but takes the time to ascertain your readiness first, letting you recuperate for as long as he can stand before going in again.

He considers your words, nodding. “You said ‘oh goddamn,’ which I appreciate,”

If you thought he was finished, you must have forgotten how nasty he is when he’s feeling himself under your praising worship, because you gasp audibly when you hear the rest of that thought uttered right next to the shell of your ear.

“ _Damn_ god honey, he’d surely fucking object to the sin I’m about to commit. Now spread your legs and say your prayers nice and loud. Shout them.”

Your eyes go so wide, you just know you look like a bug-eyed fool. Andy actually picks your jaw up for you with a hand to your throat, which you swallow thickly against as you watch him watching you. He presses with just the slightest bit of pressure; just enough to get you to remember to move. You lean back and spread wide just like he asked, trembling under his touch, his gaze, his everything.

It’s only half-past seven in the morning and he has you feeling like the freakiest bitch on earth, ready to throw pussy at him any which way he wants to catch it. The words you drunkenly whispered to your best friend the first time you saw him perform pop unceremoniously into your mind as you lay against your cool sheets.

_Girl, this tall Irish tree Daddy could get it, you hear me?_

You think about how right you were to be so drawn to him. You straight trip over how wrong you were to presume that you would have to be the one in the driver’s seat if you chose to let this seemingly shy, soft-spoken, slightly awkward, cute boy into your life. Now, basking in the heat of his blazing smoulder, you wonder at his beautifully cut figure, framed by the rising sun peaking through your blinds behind him. He looks like Jesus, with a waterfall of hair hanging towards you as he positions himself between your thick thighs, sliding home with a groaning sigh of relief.

“ _Unnhhh_ , fuck.” He can’t help but bottom out, burying his face in your neck and trying to breathe through what would probably be a quick climax if he can’t reign it in. You’re soaking wet from what he’d done to you with his tongue, which is dangerous for him if he wants to make this last.

Andy picks his head up and looks at you, holding your adoring, hooded eyes with his own matching expression. What he didn’t, or couldn’t say to you last night, he says now with that look. He parts his lips and inhales sharply, some of the strands of his hair pulled into his mouth as he does.

When he exhales that breath, he starts to sin with fervor, turning you into a wanton heathen beneath him. Obediently, you shout your prayers so they ride the rising sun to whatever heaven exists above.

_______

He sleeps deeply while you shower.

Your body needs it. If you weren’t worried about using all the hot water from him, you might stand under the cascade forever. Your flesh hums with ebbing adrenaline in the wake of the work he put you through.

He lovingly moved your limbs around, folding your plump body into positions you only used to fantasize about. He isn’t hung like a horse, but he knows how to move and he likes to use angles that maximize his penetration. He’s _smart_.

He’s a smart ass, too.

At one point, he’d said to you between thrusts, “Tap out if you need to baby,” and laughed right before taking your wrists and crossing them in his large hands so the only thing you could move was your lower body up to meet his as he put you through your paces.

You know the prolonged, debauched way he fucked you in the early dawn is his way of making up for the time you aren’t going to have after today. Something to remember and call back to when the other side of the bed is cold.

“Don’t think about that,” you say quietly to yourself. Trying to move past your hovering sadness, you shut the water off at last.

You spend the next hour tiptoeing through your apartment trying to make him breakfast as quietly as possible while he snores on his stomach with his feet hanging over the end of the bed and his head buried under your satin covered pillow in your sunny bedroom. You have to pause and mouth _awww_ because he is too cute. You have told him that pillow is for the protection of your hair when you sleep without a hair wrap, but he doesn’t care. He told you he likes to smell your hair on the pillow. You can see he meant it.

You know the coffee is going to call him out of his sleep, and it does. He rises slowly, moving around like a lumbering ghost, blinking dreams out of his eyes. You guide him to the bathroom and toss a towel at his head, which he swats away before closing the door in your face. You turn away from the sound of his relieving himself in your toilet to go back to the kitchen like a little woman.

You can’t help it though. Catering to your man is infused in your black, southern-born blood.

You have prepped what he calls ‘porridge’ and toast for him. It’s really just a pack of Maple & Brown Sugar flavored instant oatmeal. You finessed it, cooking it stovetop and garnishing it with fresh apple slices and honey the way he likes. Both of which, you’d bought at the farmer’s market on the other side of damn town from where you live. You have never been the kind of person to frequent a farmer’s market. But you know he likes fresh, in-season fruits and homemade honey (less sweet, no preservatives or pesticides). None of that matters to you, but _he_ matters. And you want him to like what you do for him.

You are so far gone for him, it kind of hurts.

Andy emerges from his shower wearing one of the bath sheets you bought at Pottery Barn after the first night he spent at your place. You had realized watching him constantly trying to keep the regular sized bath towel you had on hand from untying and exposing his bits that he might need something longer. Not that you didn’t enjoy seeing his big hand grasping his junk through the towel while he sauntered around ducking under your door frames, humming Son House to himself like a giant that descended a beanstalk in your backyard.

“I swear I could smell that in my sleep,” he covets, appearing out of the clear blue in your kitchen.

You jump and swat at him, which he easily dodges.

“Yeah, and you better eat it all too,”

You say this because he likes to pretend that nibbling on some bread and gulping down a cup of coffee is enough to fuel him through his morning. Though you know you should stop teasing him about wanting to fatten him up because he doesn’t tease you about thinning your diet. He has no opinion on what, or how much you do or do not eat. You have to actively suppress the urge to check and see if he’s had more than one meal a day. Because you _know_ he eats. He eats a lot. It just doesn’t show up physically on his body the way some people delude themselves into thinking it should.

You like him as he is, just the way he has professed to liking you. The only thing he has ever said about your size is that he delights in holding you and that he loves the sensation of having his hands full. He doesn’t mean in some fetishist way, but in a way that has nothing to do with sex. You feel good to him because you are you, and you can say the same.

You rise on your tiptoes to beg a kiss from him, which he obliges. His skin is still steamy from the shower, his normally pale chest a tinge of pink.

“I _did_ eat already,” he can’t resist joking between smacking pecks to your lips, cheeks, and forehead. His stomach growls loudly, which ruins his joke while supplying another.

You place a hand on his abdomen, pushing him away from you. “Go put some pants on and come have actual food for breakfast,”

“Yes ma’am,” he winks at you and obeys.

You go to your record player (the one he complimented when you caught him snooping through your albums in the middle of the night because he was still wired from the sofa sex you’d had while you were supposed to be watching Netflix). Choosing the _Aretha Live at Fillmore West_ album you’d inherited from your auntie after she passed last year, you put it on and turn it up loud enough for him to hear in your bedroom.

You catch his quietly exclaimed “Aretha, nice one!” and smile because he has shed the sex god down the drain with the hot water and is now firmly cloaked in the personage of the ‘earnest’ man again.

He has put his ripped black jeans and plaid shirt back on. His skin smells like your shea butter soap, but his rumpled clothes carry the scents of a music festival. His freshly washed hair drips dry against his shoulders, and all over your kitchen floor before he puts it in a bun. You don’t complain because you love his hair wet. It makes him look ethereal, like a water spirit. He has you thinking that way after only a few months of knowing him.

You watch him eagerly tuck into his breakfast with his thanks mumbled between bites of oatmeal and sips of coffee. He doesn’t look at you much. You look at him fully, and with expectation too.

You _know_ he isn’t an overly emotional person. _Passionate_ , yes. _Intense_. _Expressive_. But he keeps his emotions in check. You aren’t going to force him to profess love before he rolls on out of your life like a stone, but you do want to tell him what he means to you.

“I’ve never been with anyone like you either, you know?”

That’s what you decide to say while he’s munching on apples, honey, and oats.

He blinks at you and swallows, wincing a bit at the abruptness with which you are thrusting this conversation on him. Aretha expertly belts “Love the One You’re With” into the atmosphere from a damn good speaker system (the one other thing you splurged on in this whole damn apartment, apart from your sturdy, comfortable bed). You continue on, relaxed and happy, despite the minutes ticking down to his absence in your life.

“I ain’t never met a dude so different from me and yet so much the same. It’s a little scary, to be honest.”

Andy nods down at his bowl, that one thick strand of hair not subdued by his tie nearly touching his oats as he does.

“We do have a scary amount of shit in common for two people who lived such vastly different lives, yeah.”

You recall the long-winded, tipsy talk you’d engaged in when you got up the nerve to approach him in a sea of admirers the night you first saw him play. He had honed in on you like you were the only one there. What had come out of your mouth was “Damn, do all the white boys from Ireland got the kinda soul you got, or nah?”

He almost didn’t understand what the hell you were asking him, but then he had laughed so hard, he had to reach a long arm out and place a hand on your shoulder to keep his balance. His hand hadn’t left that position the entire time you spoke, his group of admirers drifting away from the intimacy displayed before them as if it burned.

Now he sits at your kitchen table licking honey from his lips and fidgeting with a spoon, trying to think of what to say.

“Andrew,” you say, in the way you do to bring him to earth. “I’m just trying to say that you made an impact. That’s all. You ok?”

He scoffs and puts his spoon in his bowl, looking out of the tiny window over your stove. You look there too. The sky is visible, blue and effervescent. It’s the only thing you can see from this angle. It’s going to be a nice, beautiful day out, you can tell.

“Ehm ... listen, I don’t want to … put too much …,” he pauses to choose his words carefully, “... _weight_ on this … ‘see you later,’”

Andy looks back at you, reaching across the table to idly play with your fingers while he talks. He focuses his gaze there instead of your face as he says what he has to say.

“I like you a lot. I’m gonna miss ya. But I’ll see you again. That alright to say?”

You furrow your brow, unsure of what he’s asking. “That you’ll see me again?” You seek to clarify.

He nods.

“Yeah, ehm, I know you think it won’t happen like I’m gonna ghost you or somethin’ fucked like that. But, if you can’t tell … I mean, I kind of can’t get enough you. Of your conversation, of your laugh, of your company …,” he pauses to look you up and down the way they do in the movies and your smile blossoms on your face as if it’s the first day of spring instead of a warm summer morning.

“Your body. I’d rather not go without you around, but practically speakin’ hon, unless you’re gonna pack up and come with me to Europe, we’ve got to spend a bit of time apart.”

You tilt your head to mess with him, asking: “So you’re inviting me on the road with you?” You mean this as a joke; a tease. He’s clearly uncomfortable with deep sentiment not expressed through touch.

But, to your surprise, he simply shrugs, nods and smiles so bright it’s blinding. That one crooked front tooth is the most endearing, boyish thing about him.

“It would nag at my bandmates, but yeah. I’d love to have you share my bunk on the bus. If you can stand being around a bunch of musicians.”

This is an offer, but not one to be considered lightly. Your heart soars at the invitation, casual as it is. You try to match his coolness.

“Ok, I’ll think about it. That ok to say?”

“Fair play, there,” is his short answer.

_______

Your embrace lasts a long time. Your door is wide open, leaving your cat to wonder if she can make an escape through your legs.

Andy’s tall, lean body scoops your shorter, curvy shape into a tight clutch, giving out peppered kisses that tickle your skin.

“I’ll text ya, chat ya, ring ya …” he mumbles into your hair. “Make you call me ‘Daddy’ from across a body of water …”

You giggle and thump his forearm, pulling away to see his face. “Boy stop!”

He shakes his head emphatically. “Nooo, it’s too late. That’s me now.”

You kiss him soundly to shut him up. He deepens it, moaning quietly into your mouth and heating your blood. When he pulls away from you, squeezing your hip with one proud corner of his kiss-swollen mouth lifted into a smug grin, all he follows up with is a simple:

“See you later.”

Swallowing, you nod with your heart in your throat, stepping back from him.

“See you later.”

Andy gives a short nod of acknowledgment, tucking the disobedient strand of his stray fringe behind his ear. Turning, he saunters past your doorway without much more fuss, disappearing down the short set of steps to the pathway that will lead him elsewhere, leaving you staring longingly after him.

______

_Let it hurt, let the awful song be heard,_

_Bluebird, I know you beat, baby,_

_There's no plan, there's no race to be run_

_The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the sun ..._

_I'll be your man if you got love to get done_

~~ _Fin_ ~~


End file.
